


And I Shall Rain

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Deleted Scenes, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The author is so outraged that the S9 scene between Cas and Crowley in the motel was deleted, that the author is forced to have porn revenge, and pick it up where the deleted scene left off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Shall Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crowlex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowlex/gifts).



The look the angel is giving him is a cautionary one, and the way Crowley looks back is downright sheepish, and the King of Hell knows it. There goes Dean, having given them both the stink-eye and clearly having not stown his Purgatory Plot crap yet. It strikes Crowley as unfair: if he didn’t trust his angel bestie, why did he leave the two of them alone in the first place? He shifts and fusses with his handcuffs again - awkward this is, is what. He would’ve poofed out had it not been for the bloody cuffs. He can handle antagonistic, hell, he can even handle the sexual tension (he wrote the book on that, or at least the chapter five, paragraphs one through fifteen, and paragraph seventeen subparagraph one), but this strange, silent quasi-camaraderie, he isn’t so sure about. 

“It wasn’t as bad as you make it out to be,” the angel speaks quietly, almost too quietly for Crowley to hear, since one of his ears is still attuned to the sound of Dean relieving his bladder in the adjacent loo.

“What wasn’t?”

“The whole ‘stupid, stinking, emotional pile of meat’ bit.”

“Oh?” Crowley perks up at that. He’s been human before, long before he was ever the ever-so-becoming red smoke that his soul had condensed into. He didn’t like it much back then, and now that he was on the wagon again, he could objectively say that humanity was a lot more “homo” than “sapiens” in his opinion. “You, Cas? Fond of the feels? I would never have pegged you for…” He’s once again forced to cut his words short because a certain ( _Homo sapiens_ is too generous, this one might as well be a _Homo erectus_ ) human specimen waltzes out of the bathroom and fixes him with another stink-eye.

Crowley’s eyes shift quickly between the angel and the man and he wonders, not for the first time, how right he was about his Impala-related accusations back in the day. Before Castiel betrayed him and tore it all down. 

“I gotta make a call. You two gonna be copacetic?” 

“We’re fine,” Castiel growls out in his gravelly voice, which Crowley is loathe to admit he rather missed. He did so love listening to his kitten purr like a lion.

“Peachy,” Crowley adds, earning only a shake of the head in return from Dean. So, it’ll take some time to rebuild trust with that one. Time is on Crowley’s side. He makes a mental note to admire Dean’s ass as the hunter strolls out the door (he might he cuffed, but he’ll be damned all over again if he doesn’t at least objectify when presented with the opportunity).

“What about you? Why did you do it?” Castiel’s attention is on him again, and he feels as if someone had turned on a very bright, hot spotlight. “The human blood - the human emotions. What did you get out of it?”

He has to tread carefully now. Crowley bites his lower lip and thinks of an appropriate response.

“They weren’t… all… bad.” He hates to admit it. Some of them were actually quite… cathartic. “Besides, you know they say a good cry is therapeutic. You should try it sometime.” He gives the angel what he hopes is his most sincere look. What it must’ve been like out there for the poor wingless bird, he can’t begin to imagine. “You and I aren’t so different,” he adds, and he’s not sure why, exactly. Perhaps it is the bitterness of it all. If he was going to tally up at this point which of them had murdered more people - himself or the Winchesters - he might lose count. And additionally, who besides maybe Cas himself, has done more for the wayward siblings?

“You could say, we’re two sides of the same coin,” the angel agrees, his fierce eyes softening again.

“There,” Crowley would preen if his hands were free. “Now that we’re having a civilized discussion, I’ve practically forgotten why I ever harbored a grudge.”

“Because I lied to you and betrayed you, probably.”

Crowley smiles. It’s nice of Cas to finally admit that. What a generous angel.

“For which you have subsequently both threatened to and attempted to kill me,” Castiel adds.

“Oh, angel, don’t be daft. If I really wanted you dead, I would have just killed you when I had the chance.”

There’s that cautionary look directed at Crowley again, and the demon swallows as he feels his carefully constructed walls crumble under the weight of it.

“That makes two of us, I suppose,” the angel sighs, his eyes set upon Crowley’s lips. “I have a lingering fondness for you.”

“We can start with a lingering fondness,” Crowley utters, his throat suddenly very dry.

“And proceed to?”

Crowley swallows again. This is the perfect opportunity to make a dirty quip. But the angel has always had the effect of muddling his mind and making him confuse his organs, causing a bit of ye olde heart/dick dysmorphia. Instead of replying, he laughs, mostly at himself.

“You slammed me up against the wall once,” the demon finally replies, “that was nice. We could proceed to that.”

The angel’s eyes fixate on the cuffs and suddenly Crowley feels aflame with all the proverbial fires of Hell. (Personally, he wasn’t so much into the heat - it ruined his suits and made his hair all bristly. He preferred Hell at a temperate 68oF.)

“I do remember you were a good kisser,” Castiel states, eyes still on Crowley’s wrists.

“Uh huh,” the demon replies, because clearly, all battles for eloquence have been fought and lost at this stage.

“I think I’ve gotten better at it, myself.”

“Oh dear,” is all Crowley can think to say because this entire conversation is _seriously_ un-angelic. “Cas… are you..?”

“Hitting on you. Yes.”

The angel’s ears appear to perk up and his eyes get a temporary far-away look.

“I estimate we have roughly nine and a half minutes until Dean comes back,” Castiel declares, and fuck it if that’s not invitation to a dance enough for Crowley.

He reaches his handcuffed hands towards the new (shorter? more fitted?) trenchcoat and pulls the infuriating former resident of Heaven towards himself. And then Cas pounces. There is no better word for it. He doesn’t take it nice and slow, there’s no hesitation, only the barest (for him) application of force, and then Crowley’s on his back, with his handcuffed arms trussed up over his head, and Castiel’s tongue probing his mouth. His tongue is long, somehow longer than Crowley remembers from sealing their original deal, and perhaps he _has_ had some more practice, because the things the angel is doing with his tongue are very unobjectionable, and he intersperses it with soft nibbles on Crowley’s lower lip. He is raining the vengeance of Heaven upon The King of Hell, and Crowley sighs and lets out a little moan that is once again swallowed by the voraciousness of the angel’s kisses.

“Kitten, you’ve been holding out on me,” Crowley finally manages, in between gasping and trying to catch his breath.

“Apologies,” Castiel mutters and resumes his exploration of Crowley’s mouth, slower this time, as if he’s trying to really feel and memorize each curve of his lips, the slip and slide of their tongues against each other is hypnotic.

“This is nice, but surely we’re down to eight and a half minutes now,” Crowley frets.

“Seven minutes and twenty seconds.”

“Damn. You made me lose track.”

“Don’t worry. I’m keeping track for the both of us,” the angel announces as his deft, long fingers find Crowley’s fly and unzip it. He still has Crowley’s hands pinned above his head with one hand, and the ruler of all demons tries very hard not to imagine the possibilities if they had more time to really indulge their whimsy. Castiel pulls his cock free and begins stroking it in a very, particularly, downright wicked way, twisting it on the upstroke, using his thumb to worry the sensitive flesh under the head and the slit.

“Damn!” Crowley gasps. Where did he learn to do that? Where? Crowley is going to find whoever taught him, and then he’s going to torture the living shit out of them.

“You like that?” Castiel’s breath is hot against Crowley’s neck and the demon loves the way his stubble catches on the wiry hair of his own beard. If he had the luxury of time, he’d rub his face all over that damn scruff, he’d kiss flaming bruises into the skin of the angel’s neck.

“Fuck, Cas… what do you think?”

“I think I’d like to hear you say it,” the angel smirks, his lips too close not to be taken between Crowley’s teeth, as those long fingers continue to stroke and tease the Cock of Hell. He’s beautiful like that, debauched yet in control, and Crowley wants to mess his hair up, mess his clothes up, mess the whole thing up, mark it up and down for the world to see. 

“Mine,” he growls as he pulls Castiel’s lower lip between his teeth and bites just hard enough to barely break skin. The blood there tastes not quite human, not quite angel, but pure bliss. The angel’s leg presses up against his balls, something about the contact of the rough material of his pants against the full heaviness there sending Crowley into overdrive. He bucks into Castiel’s tight fist and spills all over their clothes, thick and copious and triumphant.

“One minute,” Castiel mutters, eyeing the mess.

“Well hurry up and clean it up before…”

And then Castiel bends down and licks the heavy drops from his shaft and balls and damn it if Crowley doesn’t just come again, barely missing the angel’s hair that time.  
“Bloody hell, Cas!” is all he can add to the proceedings. That was unexpected. And glorious. And delicious. And he can’t wait for that to happen again (oh, he hopes it can, he _prays_ it will).

“Fifteen seconds.”

“Cutting it close, aren’t you!” Crowley feels himself starting to panic. He doesn’t want to imagine what the Winchester will do to him if he finds them _in flagrante_. His favorite fallen angel fallen so far as to land in the King of Hell’s lap. No, indeed.

The angel snaps his fingers and the evidence of their congress is gone and Crowley quickly tucks himself back into his pants just as the motel door opens. Castiel sits back and licks his pink, glistening lips. _What a saucy harlot_ , Crowley can’t help but wonder at it all. Humanity sure did a number on his angel. But Crowley doesn’t object.

“Alright, you two ready to head out?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel answers for the both of them and grabs Crowley’s arm, lifting him up off the bed.

“Do we still have to ride in the back together?” Crowley asks the hunter, feigning displeasure.

“Suck it up, Crowley, or you’ll be riding in the trunk again,” Dean threatens as he heads towards Castiel’s vehicle, completely oblivious to the surge of pleasure this development elicits in the demon.

“Rematch?” Crowley whispers into the angel’s ear.

“You don’t mean…”

“Oh yes, I do. It’s time we really got some mileage out of that pimpmobile of yours.”

“And no conspiring back there!” Dean snaps at the two of them as he obliviously takes his place at the wheel.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley smirks, and wiggles and stretches his fingers beneath the obscurement of his coat. 

He sure does love road trips. And back seats. And the promise of more divine vengeance raining down upon him from Castiel’s lips.


End file.
